


Bendy’s Song

by Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Horror, Mutilation, Possibly death?, Self-Mutilation, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Sammy’s been left alone with Bendy. He couldn’t be happier.





	Bendy’s Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/gifts).



> Assume the AUest of AUs. Bendy’s just chillin’, who knows what happened to everyone else. I know I don’t know.

The studio shut down April 18th.

April 25th, Sammy Lawrence still hadn’t come out. Nobody noticed him missing (and really, if anyone _did_ notice the missing employees he’d be the last one), nobody cared that he was gone. He didn’t care about them, either.

He’d found something much, much better.

Sammy sat playing his banjo, keeping measure with the dripping ink that flooded the Music Department. His face was gaunt, ink smeared across his cheeks and forehead, staining his fingertips. They strummed a familiar tune, from the cartoons that had made Joey Drew Studios. It wasn’t his best work by far, but he’d grown to appreciate it more, now, because now he wasn’t alone.

Bendy whooped and spun, dancing his exaggerated, cartoon jig, as Sammy played song after song.

He was exhausted, his fingers ached and bled, but Bendy had boundless energy. He forced himself to continue playing.

Sammy was enraptured, and who could blame him? He’d grown to loathe the Bendy cartoons, a waste of his skill, his _talent_ , but though this thing wore the skin of Bendy like some morbid Halloween costume, and though it loved playing that it was, it was clearly, beautifully, _not Bendy_. He couldn’t describe how he knew (aside from the fact that cartoons don’t simply come to life), but this was something dark, darker than the ink that spattered the halls, flooded the stairwells. Darker than the nights Sammy spent in his barren apartment, whistling or humming notes and carefully, carefully carving them into his skin.

Like all artists, Sammy knew he had something great in him. And like all artists, he had his rituals. The others had thought him weird, unnerving even, but in the end they were — well, he didn’t know, honestly. They weren’t here, though, and that was what mattered. No Joey, no Wally, no Jack. He suspected that Bendy got to them first, which hurt a little (it hurt a lot, actually, when he’d been waiting so, so patiently for something more, for _him_ ). But they weren’t here, and he was. Bendy kept him. He wondered, briefly, how long he’d been here.

“Play us another!” Bendy said, clapping as the song died down. “C’mon, Sammy. How about a song from ‘The Butcher Gang’? Ain’t done that one in a while — Oooh, oh, wait. How about _you_ pick this time? Gimme your favorite song.”

“Me?” Sammy asked, light coming into his eyes as Bendy offered his attention. Just that slight acknowledgement, hearing him say his name, curled tight around Sammy’s heart — a squeeze more and he could die content. “My favorite song?” Bendy nodded. “I — I’ll need a piano, my Lord.”

Bendy giggled. “I like it when ya call me that. But that’s why ya do it, ain’t it?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Another laugh.

Sammy set aside the banjo and stood on shaky legs. The Bendy pentagram on the floor swayed a bit, or was that him swaying? Piano, piano. Right. He stumbled out of his sanctuary, immediately felt exposed, but Bendy was trotting along beside him. Slowly, a little dazed, Sammy went to the piano and pulled up his sleeves. He knew the song by heart, but was suddenly so aware of how he could mess it up.

His hands were unsteady, his vision blurred. Uncertainty was a creature he had little interest in entertaining, yet right now he was vey uncertain. He had passion, though, and Bendy. He checked the notes, placed his fingers on the keys.

“Wait!” Bendy cried.

Sammy froze. Bendy climbed up next to him, took his arm and yanked it painfully to his level. Despite his size, that of a small child, he had strength in those cold, inky fingers. He traced along the notes.

“What are these?”

Bendy was touching him. _Bendy was touching him_. “Music notes, my Lord. M-my song.”

“Why’s it on your arm? Doesn’t that, y’know, _hurt_?”

“Art hurts.” He wanted to explain so much more, about how it was _his_ art, meant for nobody else, a habit that’d get him ostracized more, if people knew the pleasure he took in creating his song. Bendy though... Bendy didn’t judge; Bendy wasn’t pathetically normal. But he said nothing, because words often failed him around Bendy. Words just weren’t enough. Words weren’t necessary.

Bendy continued stroking Sammy’s arm. He was from outside of this realm, unfamiliar with pain or suffering, or the weaknesses of mortals. He seemed endlessly fascinated by it, had quizzed Sammy on things like food and sleep when he’d passed out a few days ago. He hadn’t even remembered passing out, only waking up, and feeling a deep shame at having failed Bendy, though Bendy hadn’t seemed to mind. He was such a forgiving being.

Now he was allowed sleep, sometimes, and given food, sometimes. When Bendy remembered and granted it. Bacon soup, which tasted like ink but seemed to provide some sustenance. Bendy had fed him the first time and thought it funny, how Sammy had laid there, completely apathetic to his own needs. He hadn’t been thinking of food, or survival, just of Bendy. But Bendy wanted him to eat, and it was a strange, intimate thing, especially once Sammy could feed himself. He’d make Sammy kneel, regardless, as he stood on a bench so he could spoon it into his mouth, talking about how weird, how silly, it was he needed food.

Sammy appreciated those moments that Bendy showed enough interest to keep him alive. He was still useful. Bendy still enjoyed him.

Bendy was looking at him expectantly. Oh, he’d asked something, and Sammy, idiot that he was, hadn’t been paying attention.

“My Lord?”

“You can call me Bendy. Not all the time, though. But I asked if it was finished. Gotta learn to pay attention, Sammy-boy.” Bendy snapped his fingers, as though to say keep up.

“I’m sorry, Bendy.” Sammy dipped his head. “It’s not done yet. I was thinking, though —“ he cut himself off, feeling presumptuous, a new sensation. Bendy nodded encouragingly. “With you here, I’d be able to finish it.”

Bendy bounced up and down, fingers squeezing painfully hard on Sammy’s arm. Some of the notes were newer, and blood dappled their lines as they were re-opened. It stained the white of Bendy’s glove.

He contemplated their bright, bright red coloring. “I wanna help ya finish it,” Bendy decided.

Sammy was silent. He couldn’t express quite how the offer made him feel. Bendy, this beautiful little monster, something so much bigger than he was, wanted to help _him_. His song suddenly seemed small and silly, but it was his. He could share that with Bendy. Sharing anything with Bendy — songs, time, the acrid air they breathed — was such an honor, it made him shiver in excitement.

“Well?” Bendy prompted, shaking his arm a bit.

“Of course, my Lord! Anything you want.” Bendy took this as invitation to settle in next to Sammy, who, reinvigorated, let his fingers rest delicately on the keys.

He played it perfectly, note for note matching the ones nobody had ever seen before, never heard before by an audience. It thrilled him that his first audience was Bendy. He played past the notes he’d written down, let Bendy be his inspiration, and hoped he could remember every note that followed. It mixed with the sounds of the ink machine, with the groaning of the pipes (or were those people? Sometimes it sounded like — it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Bendy).

What had once been meticulously crafted now simply flowed, jumped and danced like Bendy enjoyed. It felt as though he played for hours, but like every song, even this one had to end. The final notes faded, letting the ambient noises rush in to fill the quiet. Sammy was breathing hard.

He looked at his fingers, thin and long and stained, then risked a glance toward Bendy.

“I like it,” Bendy said. “Sounded kinda boring ‘n’ pompous at the start, but you made it pretty fun by the end. Ya said this wasn’t done yet?” He poked one of the open cuts with relish, and Sammy hissed at the chemical sting. Pretty fun, a slight from anyone else, was the highest praise Sammy could have imagined from Bendy.

“No, my Lord.”

“You should write it down, then,” Bendy said, smiling wide like he knew a secret Sammy didn’t. “I think ya really got somethin’ there.”

“I’ll need pencil and paper —“

“On your arm, Sammy.”

Sammy stilled from his frantic search for either pencil or paper in the detritus littering the top of the piano. He stared at a space just in front of the keys. Bendy wanted him to do it from the memory of one impromptu playthrough? Every other time he’d carved in pieces that had been worked and crafted with the utmost care before they even touched his skin. His gaze moved toward Bendy, who looked expectant.

He could do that, he thought. He would, somehow.

Even as he tried to recall the notes, they flitted away and dissolved. No. _Nonono._ He needed them. He needed Bendy. What if Bendy found him unfit, found him undeserving, because he couldn’t complete this simple task? Nobody else understood. Sammy needed a knife, he’d carve in anything if it kept Bendy’s interest.

“Lookin’ a little pale there, pal,” Bendy said. “Shoot, did I remember to feed you?”

Sammy nodded.

“And you were sleepin’ earlier…”

“I need a knife,” Sammy offered weakly.

Like magic — or whatever strange energies brought a cartoon character to life — Bendy produced a small, thin blade. Its edge glinted bright in the sickly yellow light of the Music Department.

Sammy took it with trembling fingers. He’d finished his left arm early, and the code he used, indecipherable to anyone else, was drawn in firm symbols. His right arm was written in a shakier hand. There was still room for more.

Bendy watched with rapt attention as Sammy traced along the code, humming the notes to himself, until he got to the most recent. This was his element, music. He could recreate his masterpiece for Bendy. One - note - at - a - time.

The knife fell from his hand, slicked with blood. He felt woozy. “I’m sorry, Bendy. I’m s—“

“Shut up.” Bendy climbed down and popped back up with the knife. “I wanna try.”

Bendy contemplated the scars on Sammy’s left arm. “This was the start of it, right?” Sammy nodded. Bendy dragged the blade along it, slashing through every painstaking note. Sammy instinctively jerked as fire shot up his arm.

“No!”

“No?” Bendy asked dangerously, that darkness Sammy worshiped lurking just past his smile. “I didn’t like it. It was too… pompous.”

“O-of course, my Lord.” Stupid, _stupid_ Sammy. Who was he to object to Bendy’s wishes? Even if— especially if— they applied to his masterpiece. Bendy would make it great, make it perfect and complete. “It was too pompous.”

“You should do something fun, like this.” He poked the bleeding wounds on Sammy’s right arm.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes, my Lord.” The world was growing hazier. Sammy wondered how deep Bendy had cut, because it felt like a lot of blood, but he couldn’t quite focus to see. Bendy was speaking. He wished he could hear what he was saying, wished he could give Bendy the attention he deserved, the worship. Sammy would rewrite his song, he decided. It wasn’t his song, it was Bendy’s song. It should be.

He fell forward onto the piano with a discordant jumble of notes.

 

Sammy came to sprawled across the pentagram. He sat up too quickly and the world spun into a nauseating vortex of black ink and bile-yellow light. He swallowed down air, trying not to vomit.

He was back in his sanctuary, an ink trail leading from the doorway to a puddle around him. Bendy was sitting on the stool, trying to play the banjo. There was no rhythm, no music to the notes he was hitting. He was just making noise.

Sammy looked down. Cartoonish bandages were slapped across his arms. Blood stained them, mixed with the ink. He held his arm up and contemplated the red and black trails. Almost reverently, he touched them. Still sticky. He hadn’t been out that long.

“Hi,” Bendy said.

“You brought me back here?”

“You collapsed. Guess ya need all that blood inside, huh? Like ink through the pipes.”

Sammy made a noise of agreement. “Like ink,” he said vaguely. “I’d like ink.”

Bendy’s grin grew larger. “You wanna be full of ink?”

Now that Bendy had put it into words, Sammy was immediately captivated by the idea. People were so weak, needing food, sleep, blood. Sammy hated them and their lack of appreciation, their orders, their complaints. Bendy was entirely removed from all that. He was immortal, a god. How better to be close to your god, than to have his ink running in your veins?

“Yes, Bendy.”

“You can’t do that with blood in ya.”

“Yes, Bendy.”

Bendy hopped to the ground and produced another knife. “You should finish your song, Sammy.”

“Yes,” Sammy sighed, taking the knife. “Yes, Bendy. My Lord. I have to write your song.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m real excited to see what it looks like.”

Sammy peeled off the bandages. They fell to the floor with a wet slap. Over top of the scratched out code (and looking at it now, it really wasn’t very good at all, all somber and dragging) he began to whistle and carve out new notes. Bendy danced around to his whistling, picking it up here and there, helping the song along.

The notes slipped, his hand slipped, and Sammy dropped the knife. He fumbled for it, thinking only of pleasing Bendy. A white-gloved hand wrapped around his when he picked it up.

“Here, let me help ya,” Bendy said, small and innocent, ink eyes large. Being touched so casually by Bendy was euphoric, moreso now that thoughts of ink were swimming lazily through Sammy’s head. He imagined he would be a little ink machine, heart pumping, ink sluicing through his veins. God, he wanted that so badly.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Sammy said, or thought he said. Words were becoming difficult now. He was carving the notes deep, deep into his skin with small jerky stabs. Bendy was helping him. Bendy wanted him to be like him. What a generous savior, offering Sammy something he could never attain on his own. Freeing him.

At some point Sammy stopped controlling the movements, and Bendy took over with relish. He wrote the word BENDY over the old notes, and more blood was gushing out in thick spurts. Breathing became difficult, the world darkened around the edges.

It hurt. It _hurt_. Sammy felt icy fingers of fear creeping up his spine, tangling in the hairs at the base of his neck. He was going to die.

He was already dying.

But it was at Bendy’s hand. That made it alright. That made it sheer bliss. Sammy slumped over against Bendy, who let him slip gently (so kindly) into the puddle of ink. Blood swam in rivulettes across the surface.

“Thank you, Bendy,” he gasped, terrified. Bendy patted his head. Ink dripped on his face.

“You’re welcome, Sammy-boy.”

Sammy had been _chosen._ He felt like the floor had fallen out from under him at that revelation — oh wait, no, he _was_ sinking into the ink. It was cold and viscous, covering his mouth and nose as he was pulled in. The ink dripped into his throat, slid up his nostrils. He imagined he could feel it slithering into his veins through the notes on his arms. Filling him, completing his masterpiece in ink and pain.

Sammy was shaking, body halfway into the ink, eyes wide and bright, livelier than he’d ever been before. He felt more alive than before. Bendy was the most amazing thing, as the rest of the world faded away. Just Bendy, like some demiurge creating his new world of ink, recreating Sammy in his image.

Sammy tried to thank him for it. Bendy was granting his wish, to be close to his god. To be taken into his embrace.

Ink bubbles popped, nothing came out. _Thank you, my Lord. Thank you, Bendy._

“You’re lookin’ great, Sammy,” Bendy said, voice cutting through the miasma of fear and bliss, of drowning and bleeding out. “A real work a’ art.”

 


End file.
